How does rage live in me?

Sometime back in October I received an invitation from Sreejit over at the The Seeker’s Dungeon to submit a piece for his “Rage Against the Machine Month”. Every day during the month of November he would post from different writers a piece  based on this theme.
Initially nothing came to me, and I decided to pass.
But the idea kept tugging at me.

Memories of my father,
how afraid we were to trigger that place of rage in him
how life was easier when he was gone half the year on business trips.

Then my exploration shifted.
A new journey began for me.
I realized that I wanted more than anything to give voice to an old rage that had recently resurfaced deep in my being.

It began when precious, powerful women started speaking up, going public,
giving voice to their pain
the pain of having been sexually harassed, molested, abused, raped
the pain of burying these experiences in their beings for years, and years, and years.

It has taken me weeks to dare
to have the courage to put my experience out there on this blog
to be vulnerable.
I didn’t complete the writing in time to make it into Sreejit’s invite.
But then, clearly, this piece was going to write itself
in its own time.
I only needed to show up
to be willing.

I made a date with myself to drive down to Capitola by the Sea
to spend the afternoon writing at Mr. Toots
an old hang out from years ago.

November 16, 2017
the first big storm of the season
I made my way slowly, rare for me
over the Santa Cruz mountains

And here I am.
Only a few souls came out on this rainy afternoon
to randomly place themselves around tables.
Hot chocolate and pumpkin pie
the first ones of the season.

Simon and Garfunkel offering the tunes of years ago.
A comforting container for the words, images, memories welling up
longing to be expressed
to be held with care and gentleness.

Memories, absent for so long
floating to the surface
in all their vivid details.
This time they came up like a torrential flood
begging to be seen
to be written about.

I was twelve
we lived in Mexico City
my parents were gone a lot of the time
they left my sister and me in the care of a woman we named Ma Lupe
we would stay at her apartment in la Colonia Condesa.

Breathe Arati, Breathe….

Ma Lupe’s grandson Mario and I would play in the neighborhood
there was a mechanic’s garage on the corner
the mechanics were nice
and invited us to play in their shop.

One man gave me a lot of attention
one day he took me to the grease pit area under a car
he started touching me and putting my hand on his hard penis
I didn’t know what was happening
I was so scared
I remember the strong, acrid stench of oil and piss
how it burned my throat
I wanted him to stop
I can’t remember why he stopped
maybe I spoke out loudly
I just can’t remember
but he let me go
I ran up the steps
kept running

He told me in Spanish.
Don’t tell anybody or you will get into trouble.

His friend was watching and laughing above us
this is what sexual molesters do
they talk about it with their friends
like Trump and the guy on the bus, the conversation that got recorded
how the other guy colluded with Trump
this is what these guys do…
they brag
they pump each other up!

Mario and I never played in that area again.

Don’t tell anybody, no one will believe you, you will get into trouble

Breathe Arati, Breathe….
Deep breaths….

The music at Mr. Toots filling my ears, my soul….
“Come together” The Beatles ….
wanting it to be louder, bigger, to fill every cell of my body.
Music is a great healer, a balm for my soul.

When I was twelve I was in a riding club and would sleep over at my friend Alma’s house
her fifteen year old brother Rufo would come at night and get in my bed
He would touch me and try to get inside me
it was all so confusing
feeling scared, alone
wanting closeness, care and comfort.

One afternoon his family was gone
he took me into the bathroom
he sat on the toilet seat
pulling me down
pulling my head down.
His family came home
I ran out of the bathroom
made up a story about us smoking
ran out the front door.

His brother and friends knew.
This is what molesters do
how they keep doing what they do
they brag
It doesn’t matter if they’re in their teens
their seventies, or anywhere in between
in the family, the neighborhood,
Mexico City, Hollywood, New York or Washington
people cover for them
collude with them.
Did Alma know?
Did her mother know?

I stopped going to Alma’s house
I never saw them again
I got my parents to take me to a different riding club on the other side of the city
I don’t know how I managed this, what I said to make this change happen
there was only havoc in my being, in my psyche.
Eventually I stopped riding.

Don’t tell anybody, you will get into trouble, it’s your fault…

I told Ma Lupe and she told me I shouldn’t let boys touch me like that
they would think I was a puta, a slut, a whore.
She didn’t do anything to help me!
Where are the adults, my parents?



In 1991 Anita Hill accused Clarence Thomas of sexual harassment at work. He was being nominated for the US Supreme Court. Anita testified at the The Senate Judiciary Committee hearings on Thomas’ nomination. The Committee was made up of all white men, including Ted Kennedy and Joe Biden.
They went after her!
These hearings were like the inquisition, a witch hunt!
As if she were on trial, as if she had committed a crime!
Clarence Thomas was confirmed and has been sitting on this country’s highest court ever since.

Don’t tell anybody, no one will believe you, you will get into trouble.

Keep it inside, feeling dirty, unlovable
bury all this deep down where it blossoms into shame
like a fungus
feel the despair, the loneliness of the dark place of shame
watch it seep out in your inability to have close relationships
only you don’t recognize it
you just know you can’t bear the closeness.

I’m here…
In Mr. Toots… The music…. Cat Stevens …..  Bob Dylan….my twenties….
“How does it feel to be on your own, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone… How does it feel?”

Breathe Arati, Breathe….
Slow deep breaths
Five      long      deep     breaths
breathe in pain, darkness
see/feel Amma hold it
breathe out peace, light
breathe in pain, darkness
see/feel Amma hold it
breathe out peace, light ……..

And then along come men like Donald Trump and Harvey Weinstein being called out by the women they abused relentlessly over decades.

These incredibly courageous women who are standing up, speaking out, encouraging and inspiring thousands, maybe even millions of women around the earth to find strength in each other and speak up.

All these women who were told:
Don’t tell, you will get into trouble, no one will believe, you asked for it,
you will lose your job, your career…

Women have come forward accusing Alabama Senator Roy Moore of sexually molesting them when they were fourteen, sixteen years old and he was thirty two.
In an interview about this issue I heard a woman in Montgomery, Alabama say she didn’t care about the fact that these were young girls, and she redirected the conversation to the Democrats and what Bill Clinton had done.



And it all comes back, the smells, the darkness, the fear, the utter loneliness and despair
the despair of thinking I am dying, ceasing to exist.

There   is   no   one   there.

Don’t tell, you will get into trouble, no one will believe, you will be called a puta, a slut,
it’s my fault, if only I hadn’t, I should have….

And whatever you do, don’t write about it for others to see!

Rage is despair bursting forth!
It starts in the pit of my stomach
a thick mass pushing up, into my chest, my esophagus, into my throat, my jaw, my ears
despair that begs, implores to be released
I feel my mouth opening wide
hear this gut wrenching sound
deep and guttural
from a wounded wild animal
a lioness or an elephant cow
emerging from the depths of my being
coming from another universe
a sense of vomiting sound
thick and viscous.

Sound that morphs into weeping.

The Hulk is a perfect manifestation of rage,
rage is like a tsunami
first the emotions get suppressed, recede and then return
a massive wave that can topple buildings
wipe out cities, communities, families.

I know and understand my rage.
Years of therapy, Al-Anon, the practice of Nonviolent Communication,
mindfulness, meditation,
learning to hold myself
to hold my rage with compassion, understanding, empathy, gentleness,
deep loving care and acceptance.

Being willing to feel, to be with the loneliness, the despair, the shame.

Healing my rage:
In my late thirties I allowed myself to contemplate having a child
would it be okay for me to have a baby?
I spent several years processing my fear,
fear that I would be an abuser,
that I would not be capable of being a mother, of loving a child.

At forty one I gave birth to my son Andrew
through him I have found redemption
I can at times touch, see, feel, experience myself as a loving, lovable being.

When Andrew was six months old we met Amma
How to begin to describe how Amma has held, consoled,
healed my despair, grief, rage through her embrace?
Over time her compassionate, tender darshan hugs began to sink in.
I started feeling her hand stroking my back
gentle firmness, up and down along my spine
the way she looks into my eyes.

Her eyes
deep brown pools
holding me
opening into a peaceful universe
Amma has you
Amma loves and protects you
You are lovable and beautiful
Amma sees you as a loving, caring mom
You have done nothing wrong
Amma sees your childlike innocence
Amma believes you
Amma sees your pain, your despair, your rage
Amma holds it all
Amma’s got you
Amma loves you

All this and more she has made known to me over the years.

I have read that if you put bacteria on a petri dish and place it in the sun it will die.
I think shame is like bacteria.
Shame lives in the dark and when exposed to sunlight it can be transformed,
transformed into love of self.

Amma is my sunlight,
to Her I offer my pranams.

Thank you Sreejit for your invitation to participate in “Rage Against the Machine” and the opportunity for healing it brought me.
I am immensely grateful to my NVC empathy buddies, my triad and dyad partners for the support and care with which you have held me during these past few weeks.


November 30, 2017


Categories: The Journey, WritingsTags: , , , , ,


  1. There is something positive that came out of this darkness and hard work – and that is you, Arati, the person that you have become, the incredibly courageous woman, the beautiful human being that is now shining through. Thank you for sharing your story.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. You are very courageous Arati to dig up all painful moments and share with others. I feel sorry for all the little girls and women who had to suffer in such ways. I hope such suffering will end one day. I hope every mother with teach her son to respect females irrespective of the relationship status.

    I am glad to know you are happy today. Stay blessed Arati.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. It is… so hard to breathe… Arati, sister, you did it, your words are free. You have all my respect and admiration. 🙏 You know we love you there. 🌸
    Women are standing up ! ✊

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Thanks for speaking out. You are one of the brave.
    This must stop and your story and that of others
    can make a difference. There is power in numbers.

    Liked by 2 people

  5. Thank you for all that you shared here. It is a sad, twisted, sick and lonely world a lot of the times. I’m glad that you also shared the healing part of it. I like the analogy of bacteria in the petrie dish. We have to find a way to bring it into the light and burn it up. But not just the shame we got to burn up, but we have to put the abusers in the sun as well and burn them to a crisp. I’m glad that you were able to write about it all in your time and in your way.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. I am so so sorry. I am so so sickened. I am so so grateful. For you. By this story. For you. Thank you for sharing this dreadful and heartbreaking truth. Go gently, dear Arati, breathe, heal and live in light released from fear. 🙏 Namaste 🙏

    Liked by 1 person

your thoughts, reflections are welcomed

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: